did you do as well?

in my coloring book, the lines were thin and challenged

me to stay within their confines

did you do as well?  only time will tell!

i slipped but i didn't fall

my blues and reds and greens and yellows

as well as shadow black

proved to me i had a fatal lack

of following directions as i drew

what i knew

was expected.

did you do as well? only time will tell!

when asked to sing in chorus

i had my own song in mind,

and not be be unkind

to myself

i sang what i felt

and the shelf ice didn't melt.

did you do as well?  only time will tell.  

Poetic gratitude

Poetic gratitude:

polishing politeness while canceling the crude

a garden filled with many different, colorful flowers

idling with a friend savoring our peaceful hours 

together with perhaps memories of Apollinaire and his friend Picasso

whispering Surrealistic thoughts before we go

into our private studio

to play her favorite Neil Diamond song  

we're not wrong

about the butterfly and the hummingbird

sipping nectar like a favorite word

wings beating like a fleeting heart

each second arriving for a brand new start

alive the puppy and the kitty with an intensity

shared with winds blowing wildly across the sea

goosebumps in the cold

refusing to be bought or sold

offering aid, a helping hand

leaving temporary footprints in the human sand 

building castles bravely at low tide

resting with a lover side by side

touching finger tips

touching lips

hearing the eternal call of the wild and a laugh

seeing a distant loon and a moose nursing her calf.

the overhead sky seems to be so expansive, so much

but it's always near enough for a simple touch.

rival queen

she was a rival queen

of Frankenstein's time

a touch of softness and a touch of rhyme

but not a pushover by any means

filled with mystery and secret schemes

joy and a blue heron flapping overhead

taking away the sense of dread

a wisp of willow, a whirl of sound

reciting the poetry of Ezra Pound

such was my love, the rival queen,

dressed for fashion in my latest dream. 

with young girls and boys

I've traveled the miles, heard about the Epstein files

hidden from view by the broken light socket

tucked deeply inside a Presidential pocket:

when his spokeswoman said he never got laid

by a preteen who didn't get paid

no naked massage with his little boner gleaming brightly

(was it really unsightly?)

no trolling whenever he went

into the dressing room of a miss whatever beauty pageant

he didn't really grab'em by the (you know!) way down low

where the hidden treats, tasty kumquat and ripe mango

wait for the rich and powerful playboy touch

to do whatever it is they want to do, often and too much

with young girls and boys:

for them, it's been holiday year 'round filled with toys

for the taking

and this isn't inventive or me simply faking

news.

by God, this is the real deal!

you get to choose

who should win or who should lose. 

South Vietnam, once upon a time

General William Westmoreland went south
Looking for his compass
Which he was unable to read;
He hired an aide with glasses
Who couldn't speak the language,
So they signed together with their hands.

In the growing darkness, they looked for a light
At the end of a famous tunnel:
What they found instead
Was a toilet.

They wanted an air conditioned room
On the uppermost floor
Of the Rex Hotel
But none was available,
So they demolished the building.

When the smoke finally faded,
They threw their hands up in exasperation
And claimed victory!

A crowd of astonished onlookers
Gathered their press passes
And headed to the five o'clock follies
Where a final briefing was in progress.
They took notes and stood in line to use the toilet.

Later, everyone gathered at the roof-top bar for a drink.

When they arrived back in the USA the following day,
they expected a parade.
They never found one.

of life and death

knowing something of life and death,
i sat with 20 men,
being just one of the small guys
on an tall bar stool
hoping for a summer of love,
aware that my youth died with the early spring.

i caught a whiff of their fragrant lies
between sips of the darkest beer.

then, playing fast, i watched a slow game of pool,
heard several languages,
and recognized one of them
(having traveled in my earlier days).

a sullen man sat down his hoppy beer
and left quietly through an exit door.

perhaps he had heard everything he needed,
yet was still in need of adventure
and looking for something more,
a double shot of excitement, say,
where mysteries filled the rear parking lot,
he danced on the hoods of cars
and flung himself into outer space

without even leaving the earth.

there was a drunken sailor heading home
with garlic on his breath and tattoos on both arms.

the navy man stopped at his dented car hood and looked on in amazement.

he watched the sullen man dance,
elevate, then enter heaven overhead
without a care for what he was leaving. 

the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator:

a woman is speaking on live TV

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft creamy grin, who tries to interrupt

while a house fly is buzzing around his head,

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy,

an American city occupied by National Guard members and 

ICE cubes menacing their gin and tonics. 

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forest in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

Pink Floyd (the band) is playing a British song about mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert, Trinity in the air.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his food stamp coupons and a hammer for the anvil blow. 

a square-jawed sheriff (white hat on good-guy head) is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a bikini top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of desperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag.

it's empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think, as is heard from the party goers drinking French

champagne at a golf course club house situated along the southern Florida coast.

oh, what we once had!

there's insight here, but it's dim:

there is a dark shore and a dark morning and a man

in black who is not Johnny Cash,

splashing ketchup on the walls

down the length of the White House halls

heedless of the calls for a resemblance of sanity.

It's taking place in the 21st Century

whistling past the Arlington Cemetery

where genuine warriors and heroes repose

and God only knows 

who else...

what's happening is a shit show of epic proportions 

that only those trapped in a menacing China or Russian or Iran

can fathom.

what we have here

is fear

uncommon for such a freedom-loving people

in their own heartland,

but the clown and his circus

are spreading hatred among us.

time now for the good folks

to see thru this con man hoax

by calling out the cruelty, the indifference to open civil society; 

not to take shelter behind veils of piety,

to get really really angered at the power grab.

oh, what we once had! 

America, the beautiful. 

frogs along the shoreline

my dad kept brass knuckles in a bedroom dresser drawer
underneath my mother's white panties.

he had a temper, that's for sure.

he was a fist fighter, i was told.

once, during a baseball game he was catching for his Marietta
team, a local cop arrived to arrest the second baseman.

when the cop walked onto the field to get his man, my dad flipped
his mask and ran to get the cop.  And he did, so i was told.

and later, he got me, more than once.

but i don't want to talk about my childhood.

well, there is this:

my first 3 speed bike was too big for me,

but i rode it to elementary school anyway.

i watched a girl friend of my mother after she took a shower at our house,
peeking in from outside while she was drying herself.  those were the first
real female breasts i ever saw, and there was nothing special about them.

i was curious about a female body, but can't remember why.

i have a long very visible scar on my right forearm.

the scar has a history, but i can't remember what it was.

i was a good high school wrestler.

today, i continue to watch my weight.

i shot at frogs along the shoreline of a large pond, using
a BB rifle.

no frogs shot at me,

and i wondered why not. 

As Tears Go By

Marianne
be faithful to me
toss your extra money
deeply
into the sea
come with me
in a fur-skin rug
along with the rabbit
and his marching drug
near St. Anne's Court
the thick lines white and short
where the homesick blues
wear like rich kid's shoes

so fare thee well my little dove
a much harder love
is hiding underneath our talk
shall we continue our walk?
it's on a slippery slope
much longer than the longest rope
if you think our relationship has been mended
the time of day has probably ended

oh, what you've been through
not many at all
in fact only a precious few
have survived
when the gardens and all the pretty flowers died
when
nights and darker days
parted ways

i can still hear you speak in broken English
running from your hospital bed
one more breath
is all that's
keeping you from being declared dead

shall we continue our walk?
it's on a slippery slope
much longer than the longest rope
if you think our relationship has been mended
the time of day has probably ended.

Ho Chi Minh died in '69

And they all died!
Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most. 

Sydney, Australia

Sydney, Australia

and the opera house
at dawn
was singing 'Good Day' to a
regatta of sailboats
which i saw and heard
while walking to the famous bridge
out of my way
but not too far
at the end of the summer of
1970.
for nearly a month
i waited for my flight from
Saigon;
in spite of everything,
i was able to board,
and on landing,
the Aussie girls were waiting
after i cleared Customs and
found my army duffle,
their big round eyes shining
brightly in fresh happy faces.
they waited to dine and dance,
to walk and talk,
to peek and probe,
to be close to me, to touch.
did i ever say how much
it meant?

war and peace, so close together.
and in the crisp springtime, future months away,
with the opera house filled with song,
the evening harbor aglow with lights, sails and stories,
i'd be dug in under a misty jungle canopy
far to the north,
listening for an encore.

Nixon and Mao

i've been thinking of the days

when cigarettes were 25 cents a pack from the dispensing machine

including a soft pack of matches

and soda was 5 cents a bottle

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

a fill-up at the gas station was typically less than 5 dollars which

included a complete window cleaning and an oil level check

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

the bikini was introduced for the young girls who had lithe, athletic bodies

and the nerve to wear one on a warm summer pool or beach day and

they sure looked delightful to the young boys

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Jim Bunning of the Philadelphia Phillies pitched a perfect game in 1964, on Father's Day,

and his team won which was not remarkable although helpful for their standing in

the league

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

In the early summer of 1969, in a muddy field near Woodstock, New York, there

was an amazing outdoor multi-day concert of stunning music attended by

hundreds of thousands of beautiful young people, 

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Richard Nixon, in his role of President of the United States, reached out to the

People's Republic of China and it's leader, Mao Tse Tung, for a rapprochement between

their respective countries and it proved to be a welcome gesture

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

in 1989, the Iron Curtain separating east and west in Europe was dismantled by

freedom loving peoples tired of the mind control of the Soviet state and that empire

for the most part began to unravel stone by stone and brick by brick,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

on September 11, 2001, there was a horrific attack by Islamic militants

against the United States centered on Manhattan, New York, at the World Trade Center,

with the use of two commercial American Airlines planes crashing into the twin towers,

and later, on May 2, 2011, the master mind of the attack, Osama bin Laden, a Saudi national

living in Pakistan, was killed by United States Navy SEALs during a secret raid on his compound,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

died of fright

no one came into my bedroom

yet the air was heavy with breathing

i imagined a masked man in uniform

he wouldn't give his name

but i signed all the papers

i accepted all the blame

and in the morning there was no one

i must have lost myself at night

my dying was never questioned:

they said i died of fright. 

Broken Arrow

it was once Saigon
but now it's all gone:
the muddy river slept and burned
and what have we learned?

painting it black won't get it back!

the body bags filled with Asian dirt
who said it wouldn't hurt
watching the helicopters at the embassy
the woman with her startled baby
grabbing the barbed wire wall
dodging shots before the fall
and all the President's men
in their white face
the conference table with expensive pens and fancy lace
and that perfect powder room
where the drunks sang delirious songs of doom

in the stone temples
the impassive gods sat hard and cold

watching fates bought and sold

in the parlors of the press
the readers were forced to guess
what in the streets of an American city
was real and what was simply witty

and on the television screens
cigarette smoke filled the air

while in Vietnam the midnight sparkle
was a phosphorescent flare
and young men lived and died there

while in the Pentagon
it was once Saigon
but now it's all gone
when the flesh gave way to marrow
the cry was 'Broken Arrow'

or was it in Orem, Utah?

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible,

by losing their first American man who

ascended to the Presidency. 

the Cuban Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas,

or was in Orem, Utah? 

as some conspiracy theorists have suggested. 

the summit of Alpe d'Huez

Chemical Ali was not there
in the rarified air
at the summit of Alpe d'Huez
where a sign in French says
"Allez Armstrong"
go hard and long
he was often hung in the press
accused of doping i should guess
but never strung on the gallows as Ali
is soon to be
yet he seriously kicked ass
and would certainly out-class
most sports writers
playing pencil lovers dull as fighters
Chemical Ali will soon be dead
for what he did, not what he said
the ghastly gassing of the Kurds
an act of evil beyond mere words
innocent children and mothers
fathers sisters brothers
uncles aunts old middle young
poisonous clouds all far flung
by Iraqi Migs and French Mirages
no racing bicycle in those garages
thousands dead and homes razed
survivors stumbling in a toxic daze
while Saddam smoked his Cuban cigar
sipped bourbon inside his palace bar
holding perfect Kosta Boda crystal
and his famous Glock 18C pistol
Chemical Ali was not there

eaten by pigs

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

squealing naked and not yet infirm

watch them lie and squirm

down the dance hall and out the door

rolling in heaping piles of their own manure

wearing their disguise outside the public sewer

ICE

not tea but walking body lice

masked with military grade armor

a special operations charmer 

zip-tying children in the street

binding tiny shaking hands and tiny feet

screams for help answered with a sneer

ICE is there and now here

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

snort

contemptuous of American justice and Federal court

orders, they say, from a soul less pimp

squatting behind the Resolute desk like a deep fried orange shrimp 

bone spurs and fat reducing pills

challenges and chills

the brain worm eating its' way deep into the soul

finding a black heart and a blacker hole

what, one asks, is the end game?

SHAME

on all the cult followers and their tragic game

extinguishing the long-burning liberty flame 

while applauding hate

is their ultimate fate (to be)

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs? 

on the dunce seat

when i attended school

i had to obey the golden rule:

no messes and everybody confesses

on the playground and in class

no holding hands or grabbing ass.

Mrs. Coleman was her name

and teaching was her game.

we had a small group of rowdy boys

who thought our penises were little toys

that needed attention

not to mention

flirting with the innocent girls

wearing bobby socks and shampooed curls.

the teacher was often stern

her temper simmered into a slow burn

and 

i ended up on the dunce seat

when i failed to meet

her expectation to be quiet and stay seated

she treated

me with her adult stare

i tried to care

but my friends would poke and joke around

no one could make a sound

when she looked our way

but we always had a lot to say

at recess:

hey, look up Nancy's small skirt

Francis is always wearing the same striped shirt

Joey farted, lit a match & shot the flame

i somehow got the blame

and 

ended up on the dunce seat.  

Picasso would have painted

Pablo was a dabbler in the art

of solicitation while a genius with the brush

and colors on canvas.

Two wives and countless lovers, all women,

naturally, he boasted.

he didn't live long enough to make the

acquaintance of a modern day painter named

D J Trump.

DJT has painted his own canvases, and 

each one of them is a self-portrait. 

He boasts continually they are, collectively,  the greatest

paintings in the history of humankind.

Many people are known to believe this is true.

Many who disagree are threatened with

the guillotine, a device with a weighted, sharp

metal blade meant for decapitation.

Headless people have been seen wandering the

streets of America.

Picasso would have painted them, had he lived long enough. 

landfill or garbage dump

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing

trump land is a hell hole

a deranged darkness of the soul

pity the humans who inhabit trump blight

who turn light into a nightmare sight

wherein the political right 

exacts revenge upon their American enemies

enemies?

simply free citizens who choose freedom of speech

over craven supplication

who choose liberty for their nation

over being a member of the cult

by default 

all who obey trump

belong in a landfill or garbage dump.

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing. 

Louise de Coligny-Châtillon (1914)

before we began smoking opium

i was already your devoted slave

unafraid as any other former jailbird might be

to feel your whip strike approvingly on my bare ass 

you've forcefully sodomized me with your love poems
filling my orifices with your urgent singing
opening the gates to my body without difficulty
while i've spread myself wide to your intense advances

i remain the recruiting office deliriously hungry
for your enlistment: there are no obligations!
the application merely asks for your most sincere depravity
and my madness is fully guaranteed

if we prove to be a combustible couple,
of course this relationship cannot last, so
i'm going to give you a very good tip:
i burn for your disdain.

the happiest boy

there's a little boy playing in the tasseled field
pretending to be a captain or uniformed colonel
without serious thought darkening his nocturnal
no deeper idea about an older living or the younger dead:
an all American global blue white and red
carrying his cardboard captain's shield

guaranteed invulnerability to anyone with intent
or under the super moon on a starry night
and all without any sense of fright

simply sidewalk ghosts sneaking around
oblivious to the very tender, fertile ground
where all blind people are eventually consigned

there was a crack of the bat and a flying ball
he spun and went over the nearest pile of hay
he had nothing of importance to say
he tried, but it was considered obscene
light years of urgent words and what did it mean?

he's still playing like the happiest boy of all.

i love belonging

when i was young, i created a self-protective

bubble around myself, as a defensive measure

from what i felt was abuse from the parents

who fed and clothed and housed me. 

the tools i employed were rebellion and mischief,

which were intermingled in always a curious fashion.

i found a bonding love with my grandparents and my 

grandmother's family, her 7 sisters and their mother,

my great grandmother.  My great grandmother was

a distant but gentle presence.  Her love of cooking

was a way to share her love for people.  Inside her home,  Tuesday

pie-cooking sessions happened in her large kitchen;

her daughters helped and the wonderful aromas of

many fruit pies cooking and cooling on a nearby table

filled my nostrils; i would find myself

overwhelmed with a flood of colors and tastes and the soothing sounds of

ladies laughing.  My grandmother also took me into her

own kitchen, and she equally loved to cook. 

Her Thanksgiving Day turkey in her oven was a day dream

waiting to be revealed during the many bastings meant to keep

the meat moist.  I would be scolded if I tried to snatch pieces 

while she was carving the bird.  It felt good.  I was teased and recognized and,

while maybe not exactly appreciated in those moments,

I was welcomed.

She was from an old order Mennonite family, yet had a delightful habit

of always serving herself a glass of cold beer along with the New Year's

tradition of cooked pork, sauerkraut and a large bowl of real mashed potatoes.

i belonged to this world of sights and sounds and aromas, 

while leaving me protective bubble behind.

In Vietnam, as a young soldier of 21, I served with other young men

from America, from diverse backgrounds with interesting stories.

Gus, a tall, lanky guy from the coast of California, shared his pipe

collection; he know them all and they each had unique characteristics.

Alan, the afro-wearing black guy from Bedford-Stuyvesant, wanted me

to know his life growing up in a ghetto.  Kent, the CIA agent-in-training,

who would helicopter into Cambodia and return with tales of intrigue.

Others, and we became brothers; we trusted one another; we reached out

with our dreams and our fears.  We relied on a community outside of our

immediate home families and bounded.  We believed in our bonds.

A young Vietnamese soldier was tasked with helping my Team 95 garrison

protect the compound.  He was in the service for life, or until he died, or the

war ended, he told me our first night together, sitting behind the barbed wire

fencing and the stacked sandbags.  He asked me to help him speak better

 English and in return he'd teach me Vietnamese.  We met regularly

for many months.  I learned he lived off base in a dirt floored hooch;

his small house had a metal roof fashioned from discarded beer and soda cans,

split in half and flattened, then woven together with thin wires.  He asked

me to shop for soap and powdered detergent for his wife.  Once, I surprised him, 

his name was Nguyen, with a bottle of Martel cognac.  At the time, this was a drink 

only high ranking officers could afford. 

I remember the first time Bette kissed me.  We were on the wood bridge spanning a

very small stream.  She must have seen the real me without my bubble.

I've completely discarded the bubble.  I love belonging. 

 

 

 

of hatred and bigotry

the real America, Charlie,

is found in Austin, a middle-sized city in Texas,

during South by Southwest.

so, here's your test:

is it music and drink, sex and sin?

if you said yes, you win.

lots of fun and the bands

full of laughter, straights and trans,

eating and dancing and being true to Self,

not a media personality pulled from a shelf.

beards, broads, ladies and gents

doing whatever life foments

while saluting life and liberty.

repeat after me: be free

of hatred and bigotry

and have a drink on me. 

Vietnam is such an interesting land

Vietnam

is such an interesting land:

shoreline and mountain top

jungle and rice paddy

people and places

bungalows and water buffalo

brilliant sun and heavy rains

heartbreaking poverty

exquisite wealth

glistening skyscrapers

river shanties

busy city traffic

quiet dirt lanes

papa san

mama san

water puppets 

flowers on the Perfume river

beauty and yes, depravity

yet with laughter and soft touches

final judgements

penetrating smiles

bright, inquisitive eyes

brown

with jet black hair.

i'm intrigued by it, all.

That's the lucky part

I've heard it said by my history teachers:

George Washington was the first President of America,

then a newly formed Republic,

finally successful in a war for independence against the

mighty British Empire.

It was a protracted struggle,  costing lives and wealth.

In doubt over the many years of battles was the triumph of the colonies.

How they won is undisputed, with major credit given to the

leadership of the Continental army, and luck.

Luck is a powerful intangible at work over the many generations of

human life, and it continues to be active.

In America, I've heard it said by my history friends

that luck has ended for the people of this land.

The current president, nameless for this diatribe, is a disaster.

He is a disaster not only for the people of America, though;

he is a plague on the nations of the world.

I've heard it said by my nighttime mind:

this current president is immoral but not immortal.

That's the lucky part.

Edna (1892-1950)

In Paris, a simple bridge over the river Seine
could not be rebuilt:

George Dillon brought his younger arms,
surrendered to lavish red-haired charms
and the scandalous Fatal Interview
about the sexuality of two
was promptly published on the following Saturday.
It offered a literary way
to understand the sad demise
of one famous Poetess sonnet-wise,
who became drug addicted and Steepletop lost
at an undeniably human cost.

Me?

With lips like a valentine heart
and sweet songs from her apple cart
would she love me, if I said
I could raise her from the dead
and read Aeneid or Baudelaire
in French or Spanish, if she'd care.
We could go walking in the nude
and while not perfect or purposely rude,
I'd kiss her inside her candle's glow
and play music on the keys of her piano.

She could recite her poem Renascence
with that unforgettable voice which forever haunts.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

more statues made of gold?

F. Scott Fitzgerald, American novelist

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.

Jair and Donald

everybody knows that

former President Jair Bolsonaro,

a Brazilian by birth,

is loved by the American president,

Donald.

Bolsonaro lost his most recent

bid for a continuation of his own

Presidency, in 2023.

He claimed voter fraud.

Everybody knows that

he is opposed to same-sex marriage,

abortion,

affirmative action,

drug liberalization,

secularism,

and, of course,

a woman having her own voice (as in abortion).

is it any wonder why

trump loves this guy, even though Bolsonaro

is younger and better looking.

trump himself claimed voter fraud when he

clearly and decisively lost a prior presidential

re-election bid. 

They are kissing cousins from afar,

men in love,

Brazil and America,

united in their quest for total power.

 

A literary table

A literary table in a Paris cafe
found Picasso on the sidelines
with surprisingly little to say.
Braque and his wife kept sipping their tea,
explaining the concept of ideal harmony:
"it's like poetry on canvas to form a new art;
a metamorphosis of rhythm which springs from the heart."

nearby hung a painting of two men reading from a letter,
arguing in jest about which one was the better,
but Picasso never wished Braque away;
although, in 1921 it certainly seemed that way.

Braque finished his tea and felt quite alive;
he had to break with Picasso is he were to survive,
and so off he went,
as though he were Heaven sent.

his studio was filled with tactile space
where curtains with irony and white lace
fluttered by the open windows.

TS, phone home

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he in the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was still swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remember he had found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who called me by my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk the canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wear an empty mask
and take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon
i wondered what it meant

i heard the hidden waterfall
down in these depths of doom
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf

Ho Chi Minh city:

street traffic swallowed by honking horns

where a new Trump Tower

is to be built over the bones of Ho Chi Minh,

a man who wouldn't wash dirty dishes

for any rich white developer.

Ho Chi Minh claimed no deferments.

he held aspirations for his people,

his country,

and their future as an independent nation.

His sacrifice was for a unified Vietnam,

not for an irrigated front and back nine with

world-famous greens,

tidy bunkers full of smoothed sand,

and custom Italian tiles craftily laid inside the men's locker room,

where golden showers would soon soothe the skin.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf.  

 

temples in the mountains

i wore my robe and soft slippers

sipped mint tea

heard the wind outside my tent

harmoniously

ushering in the night.

 

i saw temples in the mountains

heavy stones beside my head

a thin mat on the hard ground

which i called my bed

comforting my soft soul. 

i saw the prayer flags singing

snows deep within a high pass 

wild goats with coats of heavy fur

searching for a blade of grass

growing cold in winter.

 

i saw the great wall moving west

sat in awe

felt the land beneath my feet

move at the sound of a shepherd's call 

and a new day dawned.

is there more that i could say?

it's finally raining hard

but i've lost my only playing card

in a room with no backyard

where the children once ran around

now they're gone without a sound

and there's no one left to see 

just a shadow and fading memory

i look for you but there's only me

to unlock a door with a useless key

and the door is old and gray

so it doesn't matter anyway

there's lost love i can't repay

is there more that i could say? 

i'm just a Jack inside his box

behind the walls of a paradox

where the ticking of the clocks

count passing minutes of each day

is there more that i could say?

watching the White House

sitting on my piano bench with whiskey in hand

sipping one for you and one for my band

tapping my feet before i can stand

touching the sky while romancing the keys

watching the White House perform a strip tease

the spokesmen are singing the latest hot blues

distracting their masses from the horrible news:

1) Habeas Corpus is missing a gear

2) immigration is a process to permanently fear

3) rejoice for Apartheid as ONE race shall rule

4) join in the cult or be labeled a fool!

buy a bottle of wine the French nation said

no matter the color from soft white to red

the Statue of Liberty we proudly designed

to stand in your harbor for ALL of mankind

not ever for bastards who wish to control

respect for ALL people which lives in the soul.

a toast for protesters who stormed the Bastille:

keep poking the pigs so they scramble and squeal.

The Boss is Bruce

And it goes without saying,  but

for those unaware,

The Boss is a talented singer,

composer, and leader of the famous

E-Street Band...Mr. Bruce Springsteen,

from New Jersey, an eastern coastal state.

He is a proud American,

born in the USA (listen to this song!).

While the old man in the White House,

currently showing increasing signs of

mental and emotional decline, is not

The Boss.

Know this as a fact, from my mouth to your ears,

We The People are in trouble.

Our Rights are under assault, as are the Rights

of freedom-loving citizens living in Hong Kong.

Arrests are taking place while threats are continually

made against equality, diversity, and inclusion.

These threats become action.

Democratic values are weakening.

The American government is now the equivalent of that

1934s chancellery in Berlin.

a wonderful son

 I have a wonderful son.  His name is William but everybody calls him Will.  In real life, he's taller, more computer savvy, and younger than me.  I've imagined him as a married man but that dream hasn't become true, yet.  He would be a wonderful husband and father.  His personality oozes compassion and helpfulness.  And he's 36, so I've been imagining that it's now about time.

Happily, reality has proven to be more powerful, vivid, and spectacular than my imagination.  I thought I had a pretty good imagination, but this recent event has given me pause.  Reality is amazing.

Background:

I was invited to Philadelphia (as was Bette, who was in Atlanta) so went solo for this past Thursdays' graduate school graduation ceremony at St. Joe's University.   His girl friend, Claire, was to receive her MBA.  Her mother, Will, and me had seats overlooking the 200 graduates and the school's faculty, all adorned in their robes, with tassels swishing, sashes draping in colors.  Hundreds of family and friends cheered as each student walked onto the stage to receive their diploma.  Flashbulbs flashed.  Shouts shot out.  Hands clapped.

Will had been keeping me in the loop for the last three months about his plan for this day.  He had contacted a jeweler in California who was offering a beautiful sapphire stone for sale, mined in Montana. She had an artist friend who made engraved rings with settings.  There were discussion and a deal was struck.  Will paid his fee and crossed his fingers.  This was in his imagination, an engagement ring for his beloved.   And after a lengthy wait, 6 days before Claire's graduation date on Thursday, May 15, the ring arrived via FedEx.  It was softly nestled inside a hinged, wooden box.  Will was relieved and ecstatic with joy, he said.  The ring was stunning, changing colors as the light altered.

After the college ceremony, I drove to Claire's apartment and waited.  Will was the next to arrive.  Claire and her mother were caught in Philadelphia traffic.  

Walking from his parked car, I saw that Will was carrying a large cardboard box.  It's empty, he said, and to be used as a distraction for Claire.   She would be told a gift was inside.  

Upon their arrival, Claire, her mother, Caroline, Will and myself, went into the apartment.  We talked about the ceremony and how nice it was for Claire to be finished with her master's degree program, and now to look forward to the next professional stage in her life.  She was certainly smiling, relief and gratitude evident on her face.

Then, what's in the big box, Will?  A gift, he said.  So light it was, she lifted it easily.  Then, taking a pair of scissors handed to her, she began to cut the packing tape.  Her back was to us when my son said, it's an empty box.  There's nothing inside.   Hesitating, and unsure she heard or understood, Claire turned towards us, facing Will.

What she immediately saw was my son, on one knee, holding in his raised left hand, palm flat and extended, the engagement ring box.

He said, clearly, Claire, will you marry me?

I watched:  Her eyes, deep brown and twinkling; her face, astonishment and delight; her hands both swiftly moving to her face, her words, "Oh my, YES!!!   YES!!!"  and she took the box, opened it, and gasped in delight.

 Imagination pales.  This reality moment was, simply, indescribable.  

Then, more kisses and hugs. 

 

what you got

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing an old penny until it shines

outside on an empty dance floor

hearing the loud noise of a skeleton key

gliding by a lonely door

your smile leading me astray

every time you had your way

i was left embarrassed 

by the things that you said

watching you painting my body red

when i wanted to stay blue

instead

what will you do

as a madness grows inside your head?

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing an old penny until it shines.

since i've been loving you

since i've been loving you

there's a hurt inside because i don't know what to do

when you turn your back to me

when you laugh in my face

am i such a disgrace?

i've been a working man

toiling with dirt on each hand

i did what i could 

i did what i thought i should

since i've been loving you

and now i'll miss you

disappearing into the fading blue

skies

taking with you my final cries

since i've been loving you.

Lorraine motel (Memphis)

i had a vision of a dirty bomb
tear my head completely apart in Vietnam.
i saw the mushroom cloud explode in ’45,
Trinity was born!  i was barely alive,
fed a steady diet of black & white
watching John Glenn take his historic sub-orbital flight
into near space on a rocket ship;
he nearly died but i didn't know it,
hiding under the classroom seats
with Peggy Sue and her forbidden treats
so near to touch but i'd have to wait

 for a more appropriate time to have a date:

i saw Kennedy get blown away
in his black limo on a late November day.
watched the flowers that people held
growing old until they smelled
like thousands of dead bodies in a distant Cambodian field.
i saw them & felt chilled
when Martin Luther was struck down
on a balcony near my hometown.
he was hit with a thud and bled and bled,
but it didn't matter what anyone said:
The Dream still lives, the body gone,
remembering the Selma bridge
hoping to see the promised land over heartbreak ridge.
and i heard Nixon really got pissed!
he put countless enemies on his list
& his White House was infiltrated by crooks
who to this day in countless history books
have an amazingly large asterisk by their name
believing Honor was just a fool's game;
it didn't matter that people died;
they still cocktail partied and lied and lied and lied,
believing until the end that God was on their side!
and i indeed saw their God walking across my rice paddy water
leading His sheep to another senseless slaughter
while i cleaned my gun under the afternoon sun

and waited.   

Thich Quang Duc, Vietnamese Mahayana Buddhist monk

it was simply time for HIM to begin:
the flames on his skin
were fire
and serenity shooting higher
into the guilty air aimed at Diem
before formal talks begin somewhere
in the late afternoon
hopefully conducted soon, very soon
his calm eyes were wide in dry morning pain
in focus and perfectly, lucidly sane
no cell phone ringing
no chorus line singing
no appointments to be made
no debt willingly unpaid
no thoughts of shopping for an automobile
no deal to seal
nothing apparently left behind
perhaps a glimmer of hope for mankind
i saw the orange robe on a Saigon street
i saw his charred feet
in 1963
when the monk looked directly at me
with burned hands and shaved head
i knew he was dead
but i had wrestling practice in an hour
and a banana to eat and a cut flower
to buy for a blond girl and a kiss
that i surely didn't want to miss
then a late bottle to share with smooth Jake
under the tiled roof of a pavilion by his uncle's lake
i couldn't be expected to miss these chances,
these fleeting moments like high school romances
but i knew he was dead,
as i already said, 

but his memory will never die.

save us from this killing beast!

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin,

Potsdam, Yalta, Tokyo and Berlin 

South Korea and Mao and for the other guys somehow 

this is important 

without the atomic bomb but with the Marshall Plan 

and the German wall

before the fall 

Seoul overrun by Kim with a quick plan for victory to Pusan 

foiled

& the Great March forward somehow spoiled 

by stiff US resistance and blood and guts and honor

and then Truman, McArthur and the Yalu 

long after Nagasaki but who really knew 

what Eisenhower was about to reveal?

yes, the military industrial complex was designed to steal 

what even the CIA didn't understand 

or the KGB as they used to say 

back in the Cold War day 

alongside Fidel Castro (but he's now dead, too) as is the Shah

and Ayatollah Khomeini,

who didn't understand containment so said let the revolution begin 

with Iran 

and Venezuela and Hezbollah 

the oil flows spelled mister moolah in a brave new world 

with Huxley golf courses in the sky and 

the fervent Taliban who hate women, 

who want control more than sex 

Man as the new T-Rex!

not the woman in flames or whatever else remains 

beyond Marines in central Baghdad or the Chinese in Senegal 

they're unlucky enough to want it all: 

prayer flags flutter in a Himalayan wind.

the soul of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, without a bed

in his native-born country said, 

Peace on Earth (at the very least) 

save us from this killing beast!

and now the orange monkey and Putin,

rip roaring with their guns out shooting

Greenland overtaken and Ukraine

Taiwan a chip in the poker game

robots working the factory floor

Orwell's vision of a constant war

has overcome the hopes for lasting Peace:

save us from this killing beast! 

a happy dog and her and i

it's been a long time since
walking in the distant primordial woods

morels and deer...leafy trees and an absence of fear:  peace!

looking for a place outdoors to take a leak

exploring with youthful curiosity the nearby creek

 i'm bemused, too, and puzzled by the latest news 

 remembering hours of watching middle school girls stroke their hair
me, polishing cheap leather shoes

 remembering how the day comes undone
watching the setting sun
dropping through the soft and steady rain

now, heavy clouds hanging low
i'm forgetting the mayonnaise
forgetting where to eventually go

a happy dog and i sitting on a fallen log

peering through the lifting fog
feeling restful with extra love to give
 together also with my lady and our fuller life to live
holding her hand
she holding mine
we're sipping wine
red in the nighttime and white during the day
remembering what else we might say
looking for adventure in whatever comes our way

 and dawning, there are shadows on the high stone wall
the wild ravens float and circle and caw

the great men of old once so thoughtful and bold

in peril of being forgotten and sold. 

musing,  i'm wondering about lost arts:
valentine candies eaten like tiny hearts
 my Halloween top hat and low-rent landlord cries
valued friends and great-grandmother's fresh-baked pies
an RCA transistor radio playing scratchy sounds of American trash
i'm lost 

in the middle of the Eisenhower Tunnel
looking for Mega Millions of jackpot cash
reciting Shakespeare and his thoughtful English verse
stuck in both forward gear and reverse

 speeding on a northern boulevard
the world in my rear view mirror with traffic noise
remembering second grade recess and rowdy boys
a price tag hanging around our playground necks

saying NO CASH!  please include only checks

 Louis Armstrong and his band keeping the beat
shadows on an empty small town street
looking for my dreams in a black & white cab, which i eventually grab,

and notice once and for all time:

the world is too beautiful! 

i'm standing tall

by my ringing anvil, hammer in hand, working the hot piece of glowing mild steel into a magic spoon,

having started at nine and finished up by noon. 

 here, i offer this word song as my spiritual tune,

hoping to escape from a government goon.

the white rose is on our nose

i am always in my arm chair
or perhaps a comfortable chaise lounge,
sometimes watering my flowers,
but only if i can reach them.

otherwise i read, and often feel seduced by a book,
embarking on a secret affair with each beautiful page
as i finger its' edge.

when the air is dry as in a drought,
my flowers pen a quiet note for water,
and i spill the contents of a moist cup,

aiming for all and especially the white rose

near my hand, looking to solve actual mysteries.

what i find most clearly in reading is that
i am inspired by central figures, those larger-than-life
cubist personalities always at ease in traffic,
steering toward facts rather than faith, coloring outside their lines.

if it's summer, a fragrant scent will be painted
on my nose and the only evidence it might be from a

healthy rose is the soft writing inside my mouth.

roses do that to me, signing their autographs with love,

like a cubist personality.

and when it's winter, the nearby beach is closed, with many of the swimmers
waiting anxiously at home after reading the sign that says "NO SWIMMING!"

if a life guard is still on duty, it's to ensure there is no nudity.

but i can be nude in my arm chair,

or my comfortable chaise lounge. 

i write while i'm thinking of you, watching your smile become an undressed white petal.

the whole white rose i imagine is freshly fallen snow or perhaps a distant star or the circling moon and sometimes,
it simply is a rose.

like a watercolor, i can make it become what i want,
splashing like liquid white color in winter or summer, running, sledding, sitting, writing,

designing my rose into a heart shape to win your love.

and before it is gone, i sign and date the basket of white fruit
and present it to you while we sit watching the circling moon.

this moon is writing inside our mouth as we kiss, and the white rose is on our nose.

Dresden, February 13-15, 1945

 he saw dead people
seated awkwardly in their streetcar,
unused destination tickets folded in laps,
forever lost in thought.

there were no secret military codes
littering the basement floor
where more burnt bodies were found
in early February, 1945.

an apartment bedroom became a tomb
when the old stone walls of a cultural center
without glass windows
collapsed under the defenseless German clouds.

it wasn't Slaughter House 5
where most human remains were seen
by those who went looking for answers,
but found only mountains of debris.

at an empty church near a smoking pile of books
where Vonnegut was told to load a small wagon
with a broken-down piano,
he heard a military plane flying low overhead.

nearby, a small group of hungry and frightened people wanted to shout,
but remained speechless, gazing skyward.

soon, they began to weep.

the safety of the child

my left hip has fallen towards my knee

much as a loose boulder slides to the distant stream

heedless of any obstacle or imagined pain

disregarding the bombs

the thorns, dirt roads

the seasons and the daily orbit of the Earth

around the burning sun

heedless of the madness spreading like a violent plague,

a pandemic,

a rat infection spreading from the agony of the gutters,

the sewers,

the oligarchs with their fine coconut cupcakes

heedless of my wishes,

unaware of my existence, my humanness,

my left hip reminding me of what i could do

tonight,

if i were able to wave the magic wand, 

but the wand would not be for me or my hip,

it would be for the safety of the child and to bury the guns,

a bomb defused:

the wand waving in the fine breeze,

seeking a cure,

to quiet the fanatic salutes,

to stop the rocks from falling to the stream.

someone please pray

oh yes
there are bones
skeletons of dogs
and sheep,

signs of neanderthals!

 and yet the one impression that i keep
inside my favorite foundry mold
is of a long tall tale of being old
in an age of superlatives:
deadliest mass shooting
most post-hurricane looting

fires and piles of burning tires

a cancelled trip to the ruined Gaza strip

and i have a lot of others, sisters and brothers
because i'm working on the history of Man.
i see him crawling away from his trash can
artificially built up by reputation,
dreaming of a prolonged retirement vacation
with a modern holiday look

found between the pages of an advertisement book
claiming to know how all the marked cards are dealt

 i watch his party ice melt
and his furrowed forehead become warm

the hungry locusts swarm
underneath fingerprints of a transient god
who had been modeled originally in clay
oh yes
someone please pray

for the tasteless party tray

where he's snacking and fracking and coughing and hacking

all the way to the poor house without a scheme

to achieve a globally inclusive dream 

before the history of Man is over once and for all,

and my work takes a final curtain call.

Paradise Valley

 Paradise Valley:
the turquoise waters
rising temperatures and soft light
hard granite rock glittering in white
precious gold
meadow flowers unfold
in the early summer sun
frolicking frisky and fresh
Yosemite Fall
roaring echoing teasing it all
with clouds of screaming blue spray
greening the eye
the eternal Ansel sky
a prolonged hush
whispering silence
quieting the rush
where lady bugs swarm
flying spinning sighing
red and yellow and wings
these are some of the many, many things
orange and purple colored in awe
it's not just what i saw
it's what i felt
as the Zen masters teach
while eyeing the peach.

Awe!!

 Awe!!
ah, shucks
slapping slippery hockey pucks
for the winning points
getting free smokes in all the best hippie joints
while lounging under American skies
eating warm grandma apple pies

 just about everywhere in the great prairie spaces
playing high stakes poker holding all four aces
watching forest trees dance
in an imaginative hallucinogenic trance

 well, don't you know
from tip of head to toe
everything tingles
listening on the am radio to Wild Bill Hickok and his partner Jingles
getting lucky on a date
definitely has to rate
pretty high up there
where the rarefied air
is filled with exquisitely scented flowers
counting the seconds, minutes, and the elusive hours

 sipping rich wine with a mouth full of poetry
anywhere from sea to shining sea
and much more such,
like a lovely skin to skin sensual touch
on a soft pillow made of comforting breast
give me this and i'll be tempted to give you the rest!

 on the point of a needle our brief life pauses
immersing in irony and meaningful causes:
hundreds of millions of years gone by
and still we stand and wonder why.

 well, something never to miss:
a soft, warm, lingering kiss;
an exhale and an inhale and an exposure to bliss.
and then this:
deep in the dark woods getting lost,
one toe stepping timidly and touching frost.

 a deep breath yearning to be free
of the pressing weight of modernity.
Whitman’s wild children fully awake,
singing in the open air by a deep-water mountain lake.

 Awe!!

Idyllic summer at Juan-les-Pins, France, 1920

the Two Nudes were magnificently
conceived as life-sized torsos
with astonishingly perfect breasts
schoolgirl toes
volumetric classicism
imagined at a school in Holland
in 1905
with a corpulent rear end
on both
arm in arm
a full painting
not made for alarm
but to hint at Sapphic sex
to polish a classic subject
in a modern shine
and yet
one wonders
who was inside the glass?
was this a picture of Gertrude Stein
and Alice Toklas?

or random beach-goers who attracted his special eye?

beneath a Copper moon

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he at the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remembered he once found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who asked me for my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk Copper canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wore historic masks

to take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon:
i wondered what it meant!

i heard the hidden waterfall
a primitive, lovely tune
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.

the White Witch in the White House

i saw little Red Riding Hood
sitting on a mushroom cap
looking like a caterpillar
simply taking her final nap.

The Tin Men surrounded her
each holding an Atomic bomb
while Captain Kirk went boasting
that he discovered Major Tom
who was lying flat on a city street
where a Mother would hear him cry:

fake news reporters flew into a rage
but no one asked them why.

And behind the door to nowhere
the White Witch drove his train;
he held the throttle open wide
to see what he might gain.

on her bouncing floor Miss Dorothy
kept piling yellow bricks,
so Alice called the Queen outside
and blinded her with tricks.

a space ship called Apollo
on a mission to the moon
found David Bowie singing
with his Ziggy Stardust spoon:

he pleaded for a bathroom break
as two riders came his way,
but Neil Armstrong told him "Negative":
we ALL were here to stay.

then a ghostly sound like sirens
came echoing down the hall
but Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle
used Ice-Nine to end the call.

the operator was intrepid,
ran outside and threw a fist:
he thought he'd remain anonymous,
but she found him on her list.

meanwhile, the White Witch in the White House

proved he didn't know the score,

but even when he was winning, he always wanted MORE!